The Wistful Cipher
I dreamed of a needle made of bone, piercing the dark velvet of a curtain that smelled of damp stone and old blood. The thread was silver, cold and unyielding, and I was holding it with a hand that did not feel like mine, a hand too large, too calloused for the delicate work. I was sewing a mouth shut on a ghost that screamed without making a sound. When I woke, the needle was not there, but...
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